“It’s struck him like fork-lightnin’ in a pine. I felt it, too, like that in seventy-six; And now, if ’twa’n’t for creepin’ pains and cricks And this one leg o’ mine, I’d holler young Jerusalem like him, and jine The fight; but fight don’t come from burnt-out wicks; It comes from fire.” “Mebbe,” she said, “it comes From fifes and drums.” “Dad, all the boys are down from the back hills. The common’s cacklin’ like hell’s cocks and hens; There’s swords and muskets stacked in the cow-pens And knapsacks in the mills; They say at Isle aux Noix Redcoats are holding drills, And we’re to build a big fleet at Vergennes. Dad, can’t I go?” “I reckon you’re a man: Of course you can. “I’ll do the chores to home, you do ’em _thar_!” “Dad!”--“Lad!” The men gripped hands and gazed upon The mother, when the door flew wide. There shone A young face like a star, A gleam of bitter-sweet ’gainst snowy islands far, A freshness, like the scent of cinnamon, Tingeing the air with ardor and bright sheen. Jock faltered: “Jean!” “Jock, don’t you hear the drums? I dreamed all night I heard ’em, and they woke me in black dark. Quick, ain’t you comin’? Can’t you hear ’em? Hark! The men-folks are to fight. I wish I was a man!” Jock felt his throat clutch tight. “Men-folks!” It lit his spirit like a spark Flashing the pent gunpowder of his pride. “Come on!” he cried. “Here--wait!” The old man stumped to the back wall And handed down his musket. “You’ll want this; And mind what game you’re after, and don’t miss. Good-by: I guess that’s all For now. Come back and get your duds.” Jock, looming tall Beside his glowing sweetheart, stooped to kiss The little shrunken mother. Tiptoe she rose And clutched him--close. In both her twisted hands she held his head Clutched in the wild remembrance of dim years-- A baby head, suckling, half dewed with tears; A tired boy abed By candlelight; a laughing face beside the red Log-fire; a shock of curls beneath her shears-- The bright hair falling. Ah, she tried to smother Her wild thoughts.--“Mother! “Mother!” he stuttered. “Baby Jock!” she moaned And looked far in his eyes.--And he was gone. The porch door banged. Out in the blood-bright dawn All that she once had owned-- Her heart’s proud empire--passed, her life’s dream sank unthroned. With hands still reached, she stood there staring, wan. “Hark, woman!” said the bowed old man. “What’s tolling?” Drums--drums were rolling. II